


The Devil His Due

by eternaleponine



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Clexa Halloween Week, F/F, Halloween, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: When Clarke's mother is accused of witchcraft as an act of revenge, she is forced to place her trust in the governor's daughter, Lexa, to save her.For Clexa Halloween Week, Day 5: Historical AUBasedlooselyon the Salem Witch Trials.  Very loosely.  I make no pretense of historical accuracy.





	The Devil His Due

_I saw Widow Griffin with the Devil!_

Seven words that turned Clarke's world upside down. Seven words from the mouth of a child too young, too small, too weak to know better, and everything came crashing down. It was worse, even, than when her father had died, because this time it was her fault. 

It was her mother who was accused, but that was only because Reverend Jaha didn't know the truth. He didn't know the secret that his son had tried to hide from him, that Clarke had tried to help him keep hidden by secreting herbs and remedies from her mother's store to him. Despite the lessons she'd been given since she was old enough to see over the edge of the table and ask her mother what things were and why she mixed them this way and not that, she had only been guessing at how to treat Wells' affliction, and in the end she'd made him worse and not better.

By the time her mother had been called for, it was already too late. His father, the reverend, had been devastated by the loss of his son, and their once close families had drifted apart. When whispers of witches in the village had started to surface, it had only been a matter of time before he turned it to his advantage. 

Revenge was a dish best served cold, and, Clarke was sure, he found it very, very sweet to watch as manacles were fastened around her mother's wrists, weighing them down so that she couldn't... what? Crook a finger and summon the devil? 

"You can't do this!" Clarke pleaded. "Please, please don't do this!"

"Hush," her mother said, shaking her head. "It's all right, Clarke. It's a misunderstanding, that's all. It will be all right."

Clarke tried to push past the men blocking her way, but they held firm, keeping them apart, and at another quick shake of her head from her mother, she subsided. If she put up too much of a fuss, she might be the next to have a finger pointed in her direction, and what good would she be able to do her mother then?

And what would the people of the village do without someone to come to to cure what ailed them? Of course, now with her mother accused she doubted anyone would be knocking on her door – _their_ door, her mother hadn't been convicted yet – looking for any help. Not from a witch's daughter. They would have to be desperate...

* * *

Clarke jerked awake as a loud knock rattled the door in its frame. She pushed herself out of the rocking chair she'd drawn up near the fire, trying to soak up as much of the meager warmth as she could now that she had to be careful about how much wood she fed into it. It had been over a week since her mother had been taken, and although she'd tried a few times to see her, each time she'd been turned away at the jailhouse door. 

She pushed aside the curtain, peering out, but the figure on the doorstep was cloaked and hooded, and she couldn't make out any identifying features. She considered pretending that she wasn't there, but they would see the smoke coming from the chimney, and if they cared to walk around to the side of the house, the meager woodpile that meant that she would have to be stupid to leave a fire burning while she was out. 

The knock came again, and Clarke made a decision. It was only one person, not a small mob like had come from her mother. Maybe it was someone who needed help. And maybe they had the money to pay for it, or something else useful she could accept in trade. 

She opened the door.

"Get your cloak," the figure growled, and still their face was mostly hidden in shadow. Clarke thought the voice was probably female, but it was low, a little rough, so it might be an older boy or a young man whose voice still hadn't found the pitch on which it would eventually land. And although the cloak was long enough that she couldn't really see, it appeared they were wearing trousers.

"Why?" Clarke asked.

"I don't have time to explain," the voice – definitely a woman, Clarke decided, despite the trousers – said, "and you don't have anything to lose by doing as you're told, but you have plenty to gain. So get your cloak and your powders and potions and come with me."

Clarke couldn't tell if the words were meant to be threatening or encouraging, and it wasn't true that she didn't have anything to lose, but she went and got her cloak anyway, and the bag that her mother kept (and that she'd hidden to keep it from being seized as evidence, although from what she'd heard of the trials so far, they were hardly looking for anything that even remotely resembled proof before handing down guilty verdicts). It made her queasy just thinking about it, and the fact that the next time she saw her mother it might be hanging from the gallows was enough to raise goosebumps all over her skin.

She stumbled after the girl – woman, she wasn't sure – through the trees, her cloak snagging on brambles and branches and her toes catching on roots. "Where are we _going_?" she asked. 

"You don't need to know that," the girl said. "Just hurry up."

Clarke had had enough. She stopped, her arms crossed over her chest, and waited for her... captor? Kidnapper? Not quite either of those things, but not quite _not_ those things either... to realize that she wasn't following any longer. She'd gone half a dozen steps before she must have noticed the lack of leaves rustling and twigs snapping behind her and turned. "What are you doing?" she demanded, closing the distance between them again. "We don't have time for this."

" _You_ don't have time for this," Clarke said. "I have all the time in the world." 

The girl yanked back her hood so that Clarke could finally see her eyes. They were dark, mostly pupil in the dim autumn light so that they appeared almost black. She was all angles, her cheekbones sharp as razors, and she was beautiful, but in the way that a freshly honed blade was beautiful. "What about your mother?" she asked. "Does she have all the time in the world too?"

The words were like ice in Clarke's veins. "What do you know about my mother?" she asked. 

"I know that she's a healer," the girl said. "She's helped my family before when no one else would."

Of course she did, because her mother helped everyone. It was her nature, and a trait that Clarke had inherited, sometimes to the point of foolishness. Her father had always joked that her mother's instinct to save everyone would eventually be the death of her. 

Clarke swallowed a bitter laugh at the thought. How right he'd been. "Then why are you dragging _me_ out to the back of beyond and not her?" she asked.

The girl looked at her with narrowed eyes. "Because I also know that she's in jail," she said. "Accused of witchcraft and consorting with the devil. So I have to settle for the next best thing, which is you. I'm hoping that she's taught you everything she knows."

 _Not everything,_ Clarke thought. _Not nearly everything. Not enough._

"Will you at least tell me your name?" Clarke asked, not sure why it mattered, but it felt like it did. 

"Anya," the girl said. "Now enough stalling. Let's go, and you should pray that she didn't get worse while you were wasting time." Her fingers closed around Clarke's wrist, her grip like a vise, and she didn't let go until she had opened the door to a ramshackle cottage far past the limits of the village and shoved Clarke inside.

The room was dark and smelled of damp. The sound of labored breathing came from the bed in the corner, and Anya immediately went to it, crouching down and putting out a hand to lay on a younger girl's heaving chest. "It's okay, Tris," Anya said softly. "I've brought someone to help you. You'll feel better soon." 

Clarke swallowed hard, taking in the girl's ashen face and clammy skin, her mind already racing through a list of ailments that it could possibly be. 

"How long has she been like this?" she asked, going to the bed and picking up the girl's wrist to feel her pulse. 

"A few days," Anya said, "but this morning when I woke up she was much worse."

Clarke nodded. "I'll do what I can," she said. "But I can't promise—"

Anya shut her up with a look. "You'll save her," she said. "If you do, I'll make sure that your mother gets out of jail. If you don't, I'll make sure you end up in there with her."

Clarke believed her. She didn't know whether she could actually make good on the first part, but she surely believed her about the second part, and it wasn't as if she was going to just let the little girl _suffer_. She would do everything that she could, and hope that it was enough. 

"Do you have wood?" Clarke asked. "We need a fire. I'll need hot water, and the cold isn't doing her any favors."

Anya didn't look much like she enjoyed taking orders from Clarke, or probably from anyone, but she went outside and came back in with an armload of logs and kindling and began to stoke up the fire. While she was doing that, Clarke got to work, mixing a tea for Tris to drink that should help bring down her fever and ease her breathing. She could feel Anya's eyes on her as she helped Tris to sit up, keeping an arm behind her shoulders while she drank the hot liquid, then easing her back again and wiping her brow. "That should have you feeling a little better soon," she said. 

"Thank you," Tris murmured, barely a whisper. Her wheezing breath was louder. Anya fussed with the blankets over her as Clarke went back to the table to mix a poultice to put on her chest, hoping that it might loosen whatever was caught there. 

The day wore on into evening, and if Tris didn't get any better, at least she didn't seem to be getting any worse. Clarke checked on her every hour, or as best she could guess, and Anya was at her side the rest of the time, only occasionally glancing away to glare at Clarke. 

"You should eat," Clarke said. "So should she. She needs the strength."

"She can barely swallow," Anya said. 

"Broth then," Clarke said. "I can make it."

"Good," Anya said. "Do it."

Clarke got up and made them all something to eat, and watched as Anya slowly and patiently spooned broth between Tris' cracked lips. When the food was gone and everything washed up and put away, she watched as Anya's head began to droop. 

"You should sleep," she suggested.

"So that you can slip out while I'm not looking?" Anya said. "Not likely."

"I'm not going to slip out," Clarke said. Which wasn't to say the thought hadn't occurred to her, but if what Anya said was true, this was the best chance she had. She wasn't sure how it _could_ be true, but it wasn't as if she had many – or any – other options. 

"You can sleep if you want," Anya said. "But I won't. I can't."

"Who is she to you?" Clarke asked. They didn't look anything alike, but Anya treated Tris as if she was her sister, or her own child, but Tris was too old and Anya too young for that to be true. 

"The only family I have left," Anya said, which didn't really say anything, but Clarke suspected it was the only answer she was going to get, so she didn't press. She settled herself down near the fire to try to get a little rest while she could.

She was jostled awake by Anya's boot in her back. "Up," she growled. "Get up. Now."

Her heart slammed against her ribcage, and she was up and over at the side of the bed almost before she knew she was moving. Tris' breathing had stopped completely. She felt for a pulse and was dizzy with relief when she found that, at least. She pulled the girl up to sitting and thumped on her back. Anya lunged for her, and if Tris hadn't chosen that moment to let out a racking cough and then gasp in a shuddering breath, Clarke wasn't sure what she might have done. 

Clarke found a rag and wiped the girl's lips, then bent her head and listened to her chest. It sounded clearer, like she'd managed to cough up whatever had been blocking the flow of air. Her skin was soaked with sweat, but when Clarke felt her forehead it was cool. "Her fever's broken," she said. "It's all right."

Anya shoved Clarke aside so that she could look the girl over herself, her fingers shaking as they ghosted over her face and shoulders, gripping her bony elbows before pulling her into a tight embrace. "Thank God," she said. 

Clarke went to go make some more tea while Anya helped Tris into a dry nightdress. When she was settled in again she gave her another dose of medicine, and soon after she was sleeping peacefully. 

"Thank you," Anya said. 

"You're welcome," Clarke replied. 

"I meant what I said," Anya added, "about your mother. I know someone who can help. It might take some time, because I can't leave—"

"She might not _have_ time," Clarke said, "as you were so quick to point out when it suited you."

Anya frowned, glancing over at Tris. "I can't leave her. She's not strong enough yet."

"Then I'll stay with her," Clarke said. "I've taken care of her so far, haven't I?"

Anya mulled this over for a moment, then gave a sharp nod. "Fine." She went over to the bed and said something to Tris, but of course the girl couldn't hear her. She was too deeply asleep. She brushed back a strand of hair from her forehead and leaned down to kiss it, then pulled her cloak from its peg and slung it around her shoulders. "I should be back by nightfall."

* * *

Anya was as good as her word. The sun had just sunk below the horizon when the door opened, quiet on well-oiled hinges. Tris sat up in bed, a smile splitting her face, and only Anya quickly making her way to her and pulling her into an embrace kept her from bouncing out of bed. "You're feeling better?"

"Much," Tris said, nodding. "Clarke took good care of me." She smiled shyly, and Clarke smiled back. 

Anya looked over at her, looking almost as if she'd forgotten she was there. "You need to go home now," she said. 

"And then what?" Clarke asked. "You said—"

"And then you wait," Anya said. "I told them where they can find you, but I don't know how quickly they'll come for you. You'll want to be there when they do, because there may not be a second chance."

"Who is _they_?" Clarke asked, suddenly wary. What if, after everything, it had all been a lie and Anya was turning her over to the witch hunters after all? 

"The people who can help you and your mother," Anya said. "The less you know right now, the better. You can't let slip things you don't know." 

Clarke ground her teeth. "You realize I don't know how to get home from here, yes? That you dragged me here and I wasn't exactly paying a lot of attention to every twist and turn of the path. And it's dark."

Anya's expression hardened, like she might be getting ready to tell Clarke that that wasn't her problem, but Tris nudged her. "It's okay," she said. "I'll stay right here in bed while you get her home. I won't move." 

"Promise?" Anya asked.

"I promise," Tris said. 

"Okay." Anya jerked her chin toward the door. "Get your things and let's go." As if Clarke was now holding her up. 

Even with the light of the lantern Anya carried, the walk back was even more treacherous than the trip there, and felt at least twice as long. Anya stopped when they reached the edge of the village. "I trust you can find your way from here?"

"Yes," Clarke said, not bothering to keep the edge out of her voice. "I won't inconvenience you any further."

Anya actually dared to roll her eyes, but when she spoke, all she said was, "Good luck." And then she was gone, disappeared back into the woods with the lantern shuttered so Clarke couldn't pick her out in the darkness. 

She turned toward home, but never made it there. Two men came up and flanked her. "This way," one of them said, trying to steer her in the opposite direction. 

"Who—" she started, but the other clapped a hand over her mouth. She was tempted to bite him, but he was much bigger than she was, and not encumbered by skirts, so getting into a physical altercation with him wasn't going to end well for her. 

"We're here to help. Anya sent us."

Clarke tried to see their faces in the meager moonlight, but she couldn't pick out any details. The voice wasn't familiar, but that didn't really mean anything. With the trials, there were more strangers in the village than she'd ever seen in her life up to this point. 

"Where are we going?" she asked. 

"You'll see," the man said. He put a hand between her shoulder blades and pushed her forward, and she didn't try to argue anymore because if there was even the tiniest chance that they were telling the truth, she had to take it. 

They led her to a cart and lifted her into the back as if she weighed nothing. For a brief, insane second she considered jumping out, but in the end she stayed put. They didn't speak, so she couldn't even eavesdrop to try to figure out who they were and where they were going. The long night finally caught up to her, and she dozed despite the jostling of the cart beneath her.

When she woke up, she found herself outside of a house far grander than any she'd seen before. She blinked and pushed herself upright, then slid down from the back of the cart when one of the men motioned her. She tried to brush the straw off of her cloak and skirt, but she was sure that pieces still clung to her as she was ushered inside, down a hall and into a room where a fire blazed in the hearth.

"So," a voice said behind her, and she whirled to face the speaker. "We're going to end this madness once and for all, you and I."

Clarke blinked. When Anya had told her she knew someone that could help, she hadn't know what to expect, but she was absolutely sure that this – _she_ \- was not it. "I just want to save my mother," she said. 

"I know," the girl, probably no older than she was, said. "We will. But I'd rather save all of them if I can. Wouldn't you?"

"I'm sorry," Clarke said. "But who exactly are you?" Because a girl – even this girl, who stood with her back straight as if she had a poker strapped to her spine, and yet seemed utterly relaxed, as if nothing could touch her – didn't have the kind of influence one would need to 'end this madness', as she'd put it. That was the whole problem, and if it hadn't been the start of it, it certainly fed it. Suddenly girls had the ability to get their revenge on those that had wronged them, and they were drunk with power.

The girl's eyebrows went up. "Anya didn't tell you?" Clarke shook her head. "Of course not. 'You can't let slip what you don't know', right?" Her lips curved into the faintest of smiles. "I'm sorry for her," she said. "She can be a bit... intense. But that doesn't answer your question. I'm Alexandria. Alexandria Woods. My friends call me Lexa."

 _Woods._ The governor's daughter. There had been rumors that he might come to oversee the proceedings, but nothing anyone had been able to confirm. But they hadn't traveled nearly far enough to have made it to the capital, so it appeared that the rumors were true. 

"Lexa," Clarke said. "I'm Clarke. Griffin."

Lexa's smile widened. "So we're to be friends. Good. And I know who you are. I know that your mother is the Widow Abigail Griffin. I know that your father was executed without a trial, and I know that your mother failed to save the Reverend's son, and this is his revenge. Am I missing anything?"

Clarke shook her head, unsure how Lexa knew all of that, and unsure, too, whether she liked having so much known about her own life without knowing anything about her companion's. Although she supposed companion probably wasn't the right word for their relationship, which thus far seemed to be almost entirely one-sided.

"I didn't think so. Have you eaten?"

"I'm not—" Clarke started to say, but there didn't seem to be much point in lying. Lexa seemed to have the ability to see right through her. "Not much."

"I was just about to sit down to dinner," Lexa said. "Come. There's more than enough."

* * *

After they'd eaten, Lexa led her up the stairs to a room that was less lavishly furnished than the ones downstairs, but still warm and inviting. Lexa motioned for Clarke to take the chair by the fire, and perched herself on the edge of the bed. Clarke considered it, but she'd been sitting most of the last day, it seemed, and if her mind wouldn't be still, her body didn't want to be either. So she stayed standing, pacing back and forth. "This isn't your house," she said.

"No," Lexa said, "it's not. We've been given leave to stay here for as long as my father needs to."

"Where is he?" Clarke asked. "Your father." _The governor._

"I don't know," Lexa said. "Does it matter?"

"Doesn't it?" Clarke answered her question with a question. "Isn't he the one who's going to put a stop to all of this?"

Lexa just watched her, her eyes tracking her as she moved from one side of the room to the other. "He might be the one who has to say the words in order for them to be heard," she said after a long moment. "But they will be our words."

"What makes you so sure that you can stop this?" Clarke asked.

"I have faith," Lexa said, her expression almost irritatingly serene.

"In God?" Clarke asked. "Because if what everyone is saying is to be believed, God isn't in Arcadia anymore. He's forsaken us, and let the Devil rise up in his absence."

"Not in God," Lexa said, and if she realized it was blasphemy she was speaking, she gave no sign of being bothered by it. "In reason. In people doing the right thing for the right reasons, once they're presented with the truth."

"And what's that?" Clarke asked. "What's the truth, as you see it?"

"You tell me," Lexa said. "This place is your home, not mine. I would like to hear your thoughts before I start making guesses on the limited information that I have."

From what Clarke had heard, her information didn't seem to be as limited as she implied, but she appreciated the fact that Lexa, unlike most people, most _men_ , was willing to listen to what she had to say. 

"I don't think the devil is in this village," Clarke said, "or anywhere." Which was blasphemy, too, but at this point it felt like if she was in for a penny, she might as well be in for a pound. "Have you noticed who it is pointing their fingers and naming names?"

"I know the names," Lexa said, "but they mean little to me."

"You've noticed that they're all girls, though, haven't you? All younger girls, mostly. Some of them easily manipulated, some of them smarter than anyone gives them credit for. Some of them with grievances against those they've accused."

"So you think this is revenge?" Lexa asked. 

"I think that's part of it," Clarke said. "Some of the accused are just easy targets. People who are on the fringes of things, people who might not be well-respected. That's where they started, with those who had no one to defend them, and they were listened to. They were believed. No no one questioned them, or at least no one questioned the veracity of their claims, only the details of their torments. From there they grew bold. One of the girls, Mercy, is employed by one of the women she accused, and I've heard her complain more than once about what a harsh mistress she is. Another, the Reverend's ward, has always felt like she's been treated as less than, second best to his true daughter, and I can only imagine that's gotten worse since Wells died."

She felt a pang as she uttered her once close friend's name for the first time in what felt like a very long time, but it had only been a few months. Then again, the last few weeks since this madness had begun felt like an eternity, the days since her mother had been taken a lifetime. 

She realized then that Lexa _had_ missed a detail earlier, one that might not be important to anyone else, but it was important to her. "It wasn't my mother's fault," she said. "Wells' death. It wasn't her fault."

"Of course not," Lexa said. "He was sick. Sometimes even with the best treatment—"

"No," Clarke said. "Listen to me. It wasn't her fault. It was mine."

Lexa listened patiently as Clarke spilled the whole story. The fits that Wells had started having, his fear that his father would think it was a sign that he had the devil in him and that he wasn't strong enough to fight him off, his own fear that it might actually be true. How he'd come to Clarke to help him, to find some herb, some remedy, that would make it stop. How he'd insisted that she not tell her mother, because even if they weren't as close since Clarke's father's death, her mother and his father had once been good friends, or as good friends as a man and a woman could be once they got past a certain age and status, and how he worried that she might let slip something to his father and damn them all. 

She told her how she'd tried to pick her mother's brain without drawing suspicion, and how she was reasonably certain that she'd failed, just as she'd failed to find a cure, or even anything that alleviated the symptoms in the slightest. How Wells had become increasingly desperate, and so had she, and eventually they hadn't been able to hide it anymore, and despite her mother's best efforts, he'd died, but Clarke was sure that if they'd just gone to her in the first place, she would have had an answer. If she hadn't tried to do it on her own, Wells would still be alive, and none of this would be happening.

Through all of it, Lexa's expression remained neutral, but when Clarke finally finished, she shook her head. "It's not your fault," she said. "He was the one who asked you to keep it a secret."

"It's not his fault!" Clarke said, too loudly, her own voice bouncing back at her from the walls. She flinched at how shrill she sounded. 

"I didn't say it was," Lexa said, her hands held up like you might if you were asking a cornered animal not to attack you. "It's no one's fault, really. God, maybe, if you must lay blame."

"God?" Clarke asked. "Not the Devil?"

"I don't believe in either one," Lexa said, "but—"

Clarke lurched half out of her chair, hands out like she was going to clap them over Lexa's mouth, to stuff the words back. "You can't say that here," she hissed. "If anyone heard you—"

Lexa caught her hands and pulled her to sit beside her on the bed. "Do you?" she asked. "Do you believe in the Devil?"

Clarke frowned, looking down at their joined hands. "Not... not like this," she said. "What's happening here, it's not..." She shook her head. "I don't know what to believe anymore." Which was true enough. 

"Believe this, then," Lexa said. "We will see your mother safe, and all of the other women, too. We will end this madness."

"How?" Clarke asked. 

The corner of Lexa's mouth quirked up. "The less you know, the less you can say," she told her. "For now, anyway."

A chill went through Clarke. "Are you sending me home?" she asked.

Lexa's eyes widened. "No," she said. "Unless you want to leave?" Clarke hesitated, then shook her head. "Good. Then you'll stay here with me until this is over." 

Clarke didn't realize until she yawned so widely she thought she felt her jaw crack that when Lexa said she would stay with her, she actually meant here, in the same room. In the same bed, even. Which she might have been used to if she'd grown up with siblings, but she was her parents' only child, and she'd always had a bed to herself. When they were under the covers and the lamp had been extinguished, Clarke found herself suddenly unable to sleep despite her exhaustion, acutely aware of the warmth of the body beside her and how easy it would be to reach out and touch her.

Not that she wanted to. Why would she want to? Except that there might be some comfort to be found in the touch of another person, like she'd felt calmer, a little, when Lexa had taken her hands. She slid her hand across the space between them, brushed her fingers lightly against the blade of Lexa's shoulder, then quickly pulled it away like she'd been burned.

She'd assumed Lexa was asleep, but as soon as she touched her, she turned her head to look at her, then rolled completely over because Clarke had frozen in place without even the sense to squeeze her eyes shut and feign sleep. 

"I can't sleep either," Lexa said, finding Clarke's hand and squeezing it, shifting ever-so-slightly closer so that their knees accidentally bumped. "But we have to. We need our heads clear, our minds sharp."

"I know," Clarke said, even though she didn't know _what_ they needed their minds sharp for. Clearly Lexa had some idea, some plan, and she hoped that she would share it with her... but it wouldn't be tonight. That much she had made clear. "It's just hard to stop thinking about everything."

"I know," Lexa echoed. She squeezed Clarke's hand again, and didn't let go. Clarke tried to ignore the strange squirming feeling she got in her stomach when she felt Lexa's breath brush against her cheek, as they were practically forehead to forehead, pressed together in the middle of a bed big enough that they could have kept safely apart if they'd wanted to. "Just close your eyes," she said. "Try to remember another time, a time when you were happy." 

Clarke tried. She really did. But it seemed as if every good memory was somehow tainted, because the three people who had made up the center of her world: her father, her mother, and Wells, were all gone. Two of them forever, the last maybe not... and so she tried to focus on that. She tried to imagine how they would free her, what they would do, what they would say... and what would happen after. 

Finally she drifted off, and woke in the morning to find herself pressed tight against Lexa's back. She must have rolled over in her sleep, and Clarke had curved her own body around her, and arm draped over her waist, and somehow Lexa's fingers had tangled into hers. There was no way she could extricate herself without waking the other girl... and so for a moment she just didn't. She stayed as she was, soaking up the warmth of her against the chill of the morning that pressed in around them, even through the quilts that covered them. She breathed in the sweet soap scent of her hair, finer than anything they had in the village, and a sharper scent, floral and herbal at once, that rose from her skin, or maybe from her nightdress. Lavender, Clarke thought. 

Clarke shifted, pressing her thighs together as if she could contain the warmth that flooded through them, and she felt Lexa move in response, pressing her hips back into Clarke's, but it was probably just a coincidence, because then she rolled over, her eyes opening, brilliant green in the dim morning light. "Good morning," she murmured, sliding her arm over Clarke, her hand pressed flat to her back so she couldn't pull away, even if she wanted to. (She didn't want to, she realized, and the thought was troubling.) 

"Good morning," Clarke replied. 

"We should get up," Lexa said. "See about getting something to eat. It's going to be a long day."

Clarke's lips parted, but no sound came out, and finally she just nodded her agreement. The moment the covers were pushed back and the cold hit her skin, she wanted to yank them back up, to pull them right up over their heads and burrow beneath them, curled up against each other – for warmth – and forget the rest of the world for a little while. But her mother didn't have that luxury; she might not have any blankets at all. She might be shivering, taking sick from it as they spoke, and that thought was enough to propel Clarke out of bed and keep her attention solely on herself as she got dressed.

Over breakfast, Lexa outlined her plan. She was going to demand entrance to the jail and speak to the accused, find out what they were accused of doing, and what grievance might have led to the accusation. For Clarke's part, she would be responsible for speaking to the accusers, for finding out what their true motivations were. There was a chance that they might suspect she was up to something, because her mother was one of the accused, but she had her own bones to pick with some of the members of the village – the ones who had called for her father's death, and carried out his execution without anything even remotely resembling a trial – so she might be able to convince them that she was on their side. 

All of this rode on the hope that she could.

* * *

It was a long day, and by the end of it Clarke just wanted to curl up and cry. She didn't know if she had managed to accomplish anything, or if any of the information that she'd managed to gather would do them any good. She went back to the house where Lexa was staying – where she was staying with Lexa – which turned out not to be as far away as she'd imagined, although the walk was long enough that she felt half-frozen by the time she arrived, and found that Lexa wasn't back yet, but the serving girl had been given instructions to make sure that was let in and given something to eat.

"I'll wait for her," Clarke said. "To eat. I'll wait for her."

"Are you sure, miss?" the girl asked. "It's no trouble."

"I'm sure." Clarke smiled at her, because if she'd learned anything today, it was that girls like this one didn't get shown a great deal of kindness, and often it was a great deal of the opposite. She was glad, though, that Lexa arrived not long after, because she _was_ hungry. 

After they'd eaten, they sat down by the fire and compared what they'd learned. Lexa found paper and ink, and they made notes on what was most important, what they could use to make it clear that this was not the work of the devil, but of people. The young women themselves, in many cases, but some were having their strings pulled by others, chief among them Reverend Jaha, hellbent on revenge and twisting the entire village to his will. 

"Did you see my mother?" Clarke finally asked, which she should have done straight away, but she hadn't had the courage, because she feared what the answer might be. 

"I did," Lexa said, smiling. "Before she would answer any of my questions, she asked about you. She wanted to know if I had any news of you. I told her that you were fine, that you were helping me. I told her that you were safe under my protection." 

Clarke pursed her lips. She still wasn't sure what protection Lexa could offer her, but the other girl had asked for her faith, and she had little else to believe in, so she gave it. "Then she's all right?"

"She's as well as can be expected," Lexa said. "The conditions aren't good, but from what I saw, and from what was said, they're not being mistreated. They're cold and they're hungry, and it seems your mother is looking out for everyone else before herself."

"She does that," Clarke said softly.

"She's a strong woman, and this will all be over soon. I promise you that."

Clarke could only nod, a lump having formed in her throat. When Lexa suggested they go to bed, she followed without question, climbing under the covers beside her and not even trying to hide the fact that she needed the comfort of being close to her this time. The stress of everything happening made her feel small and vulnerable, and it helped a little to know that she wasn't alone. She told herself that that's all it was.

* * *

Her mother's trial was two days later. Two days of gathering as much information as they could, of sitting side-by-side comparing notes, trying to shape it all into a coherent narrative. Two days during which Clarke slowly allowed hope to creep in. She didn't let herself think about the nights in between, where other feelings had also started to work their way to the surface, which were as heady as hope, and just as dangerous.

On the morning of the trial, they presented everything they had to Lexa's father, the governor. He looked it over, his eyes narrowing as he looked first at Lexa, then at Clarke, then back at Lexa again, his head shaking slightly.

"You should not have done this," he said. "Do you know what could have happened to you?"

"Of course I know what could have happened to me," Lexa said. "The same thing that's happening to these women, and it would have been just as unfair, just as unwarranted. That's why I had to do it."

He studied her for a long time, and finally shook his head, not in disagreement but in resignation. "It might be enough," he said. "It just might be enough."

They had been forbidden from attending the trial, but if Clarke had learned anything about Lexa over the past few days, it was that she did not like to be told no. She liked it so little, in fact, that she had a tendency to ignore it entirely, along with just about every other rule. 

"Are you sure...?" Clarke started, looking at the dress that Lexa had pulled out to change into. It was a deep red, a color that was frowned up, especially for women. Everyone knew that one of the pieces of evidence of collusion with the devil in one of the trials was that the woman wore a red bodice. Lexa knew, because the woman herself had told her, with a bitter laugh, Lexa had said. 

"I'm sure," Lexa said.

Clarke dressed in blue, because it was her best dress and the only thing she had that was clean. She went with Lexa to the place where the trials were being held, through the doors and in. She started to slip into a seat in the back, but Lexa kept walking, and after a second's hesitation she followed, taking a seat beside her. She could hear murmurs in their wake, but Lexa kept her head high and therefore so did she. 

Her mother was the first one called, and she slid her hand between then, grateful when Lexa noticed and reached down to take it, their twined fingers hidden in their skirts. The charges were listed, and the evidence given. Clarke's heart was in her throat, her eyes darting to Lexa's father, who sat to one side, watching and saying nothing. Her fingers hurt from how tightly she was gripping Lexa's hand, and her breath came in shallow pants as her fear rose. 

Finally they called for judgement to be passsed and the governor slowly, slowly rose. All eyes turned to him as he cleared his throat and began to painstakingly outline, point by point, exactly why everything that was happening, everything that had been said, was a sham. The accusations were false, the evidence fabricated, the woman accused victims of circumstance or vengeance. Everything they'd been told by the accused and the accusers was laid bare.

For a second, Clarke worried that the girls would begin their shrieking and shaking, their play-acted convulsions, and point their fingers at the governor, say that he was bewitched as well, that the devil was in him. But they stayed still and silent, because the wrongs that had been done to them, the cruelty they had been shown, the manipulations that had twisted them, that was all there too, and to say anything now would be to act against their own self-interest. 

When he had finished, the silence was deafening. No one said a word, no one so much as moved. It was as if they all scarcely dared to breath. 

"I think," the governor said, "that we are finished here. The women will be set free. All of them. No further charges will be brought against them, or anyone else. If there is evil in this village, it is not in the form of the Devil himself, but in the weakness of man."

No one dared argue. They just quietly stood and filed out.

Clarke met her mother, freed of her shackles, outside, and threw her arms around her. Her eyes pricked with tears as her mother's arms closed around her, holding her tighter than she could remember being held ever before. "Thank you," her mother said. "Thank you."

"It wasn't me," Clarke said. "Not alone. Lexa..."

"I know," her mother said, brushing back a wayward strand of her hair. "I owe her my thanks as well." 

"She's—" Clarke turned to find Lexa, assuming she would still be at her side, but she was gone. Clarke looked desperately for a flash of red in the dissipating crowd, but she was nowhere to be seen. She bit her lip hard against the sudden ache in her chest, not unlike the feeling she'd had when they'd taken her mother. 

"It's all right," her mother said. "Go. I'll see you at home."

Clarke hesitated, knowing that her duty lay with her mother, that she ought to go home with her, make sure she was all right, maybe make her something to eat. But panic made her heart pound, and she gave her mother one last squeeze before taking off as fast as she dared toward the place that had been her sanctuary for the last few days. She knocked too hard, and when the door was opened, she pushed inside without even asking. "Is she here?" 

"Upstairs," the girl said, getting out of her way. "Are you all right?"

"I don't know," Clarke said honestly. "Thank you." 

She rushed up the stairs, past the rather startled governor, and into the room she had only left hours before. Lexa was there, folding things into a trunk. Clarke stopped short, trying to control her breathing. "When do you leave?" she asked, her voice steadier than she expected it would be.

"As soon as we're packed," Lexa said. "Tonight, maybe, or if not, tomorrow morning."

"Oh." Clarke nodded, forced herself to smile. "You must be glad to be going home."

Lexa looked at her, smiling too, but there was sadness in her eyes. "Not entirely," she said. 

"You don't want to stay here," Clarke said. "Just because your fa—the governor stopped the trials doesn't mean that things will just suddenly change. As long as Reverend Jaha remains, as long as he's the minister..." She lifted her shoulders, let them fall. "Without witches to blame, he'll think of something else."

Lexa placed the dress she'd been folding carefully in the trunk and then stepped around it. Clarke watched her throat work, and finally she said, her voice soft but not weak, "You could come with me."

"I can't," Clarke said immediately. "My mother..."

"Of course," Lexa said, looking away. "You're right. I shouldn't have asked."

"It's not—" Clarke started, but then she didn't know how to finish it. Or she did know, but she couldn't say it out loud, because that would make it true, and she wouldn't be able to take it back. "I don't think your father would be very happy if you told him you were bringing me home with you."

"My father knows by now that what he wants and what I do often have very little to do with each other," Lexa said. "I'm the son he wanted, but I was born into a girl's body. He wishes every day that I was a boy." She looked down, then back up at Clarke through her lashes. "Sometimes I do too."

"Why?" Clarke asked without thinking. Not because she really needed to know why; that much was obvious. Boys were free to do as they pleased, and they grew up to be men and controlled everything, starting with their wives. Not that her father had ever been able to do much to curb her mother, but they weren't exactly usual, were they? A pang of loss went through her at the thought of her father. But no, she didn't need Lexa to explain why she might wish to be a boy instead of a girl. But the thought of Lexa as a boy, as anyone other than herself... it made Clarke feel like a cat that had been rubbed the wrong way. 

"It would just make some things easier," Lexa said. "Most things, really, but... one thing in particular."

She was close now, so close that Clarke could reach out and touch her, could pull her closer, hold her tight, not let her go. "What?" she asked, her voice somewhere between a croak and a rasp. 

"This," Lexa whispered, and then her lips touched Clarke's, and everything she'd never felt for Wells even when it seemed as if everyone thought she ought to welled up, overflowed, heat flooding her body, up through her chest and neck to her cheeks and even the tips of her ears, and down through her belly and thighs, a tight ache between her legs that she knew she wasn't supposed to feel. Not like this. Not for a girl. 

But knowing she shouldn't didn't stop her. It didn't stop her from feeling it, and it didn't stop her from bringing her hands up, one to Lexa's arm and the other to her hip, leaning into her as her lips parted, kissing her back until she was dizzy with it, until her head spun like she was drunk, or like how she imagined being drunk might be. 

She finally pulled away, letting go, stepping back. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was sure that Lexa could see right through her as she shook her head. "I can't," she said. 

Lexa nodded. "I understand."

"I should go," Clarke said. "Thank you for what you did. For my mother. For everyone. I don't know what I would have done. I don't know if I could have done anything on my own."

"I only did what was right," Lexa said. "Be well, Clarke."

"And you," Clarke said. She considered, just for a moment, embracing Lexa one last time, but she worried that if she touched her again, it would be impossible to let go. So she just turned and left, drawing deep breaths and blinking hard, telling herself it was just the wind making her eyes tear as she made her way through the nearly deserted streets to home.

* * *

"What's wrong?" her mother asked as soon as she stepped inside. "Clarke, what's happened?"

"Nothing," Clarke said. "It's just the wind."

Her mother sighed, coming over and taking her face between her hands. "It's not just the wind. You look..." She shook her head. "Tell me what happened."

"I can't," Clarke said. Her mother might not be like a lot of the other people in this village, but she was sure that even she had limits to what she was able to understand and accept. "It doesn't matter."

"It does," her mother said. "It matters to me. You just helped prevent the deaths of countless innocent people. You should be filled with joy at that, and instead you look as if your heart is breaking."

"Maybe it is," Clarke whispered, not wanting to say it but the words forced themselves from between her lips before she could swallow them back. 

Her mother looked at her, studying her face, and then she smiled, but it was a sad sort of smile. The kind that said that she understood, somehow, even though there was no way that she really could. "What did she say?" she asked. 

"She asked me to come with her," Clarke said. "I told her I can't. I know that I have to—"

"Why can't you?" her mother asked. "You're old enough to make your own decisions. You've outgrown this place. We both have, I think. After this... there is nothing left for us here. It will take me some time to wrap up my affairs, but that's no reason why you shouldn't go." 

Clarke blinked, not quite comprehending what her mother was saying, or maybe just not believing that she was saying it. "You would let me...?"

"Your father and I were lucky," she said. "When we met, we were both in a position where we were able to follow our hearts. We were able to make a life together, and it was a good life. A happy one. There's no reason that you shouldn't be able to do the same."

"There's every reason—" Clarke said, but her mother cut her off.

"We have seen what the closing of minds and hearts can do," she said. "I won't let that happen again. Not to you." She kissed her forehead. "Go ask if they can wait until the morning to leave. I'll pack your things, and start packing mine. I'll follow as soon as I can."

Clarke opened her mouth to ask if her mother was sure, but closed it again because if she wasn't sure, that moment's hesitation, that question, might make her change her mind. So she left the house again, practically running through the streets. She skidded to a halt in front of the house, where it looked like a wagon was already being loaded. 

"Wait!" she yelled, and the cloaked figure of the governor turned to her, a frown creasing his face into deep wrinkles. "Please, I—"

"She never learns, does she?" he said, but Clarke didn't think he was actually talking to her. He shook his head. "She's inside."

Clarke bobbed a curtsey and went inside, nearly colliding with Lexa, who almost dropped the box she was carrying. "I changed my mind," she said. "My mother, really. She said there's nothing for us here. She's going to come when she can, but—"

"You're coming?" Lexa said.

"If you'll still have me."

Lexa set the box down then and pulled Clarke into her, her lips brushing the side of Clarke's neck as she whispered, "With all of my heart."


End file.
